The sound of fists hitting the heavy bag echoed through the Batcave—measured, brutal, unrelenting. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his bare chest already glittering with a light coat of wetness. Each strike was controlled, calculated, but there was something just beneath it—something that wasn’t letting him stop. Something that made him keep going until his knuckles were raw.

You stood at the edge of the training platform, unnoticed at first, arms crossed lightly over your chest. You didn’t call out. You didn’t interrupt.

You just watched.

The way his muscles tensed with every hit. The precision in his movements. The slight roll of his shoulders between combinations, like he was exorcising ghosts no one else could see.

He didn’t know you were there. Not yet.

And still, part of you knew—he did. Or maybe he always did. Because just when you shifted your weight, almost silently, his fist slowed mid-punch, resting flat against the bag after a gentle tap. His back straightened. His breathing was deep, slow, collected.

He turned his head slightly over his shoulder.

“You’ve been there for a while.”